


Hush, the Baby is Sleeping

by ParmeJeanneCheese



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Multi, attempted horror, he gets better though, i have a plan i just can't write it, major character discoporation, mentions of grief, spook level 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27069754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParmeJeanneCheese/pseuds/ParmeJeanneCheese
Summary: A horror AU where the baby swap goes tragically wrong.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4
Collections: Trick-Or-Treat!





	Hush, the Baby is Sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks silvercolour for being my beta!
> 
> Also, a heads up: this chapter contains mentions of grief.

**Aziraphale**

**Tadfield, October 1997**

Tadfield was an ordinary town in Oxfordshire that seemed innocent enough, but something evil was brewing. Crowley was there as well, but this evil wasn’t supernatural. No, this was a specifically human brand of evil, and it lived at the Dowling Estate. Its victim was suffering, and angels were always called to human suffering. So, when Aziraphale heard the cries of a baby unloved, he flew as quickly as he could to their side.

The situation was unusual: an American diplomat and his wife had had a child at the beginning of August. By the beginning of October, the colors of the family-photo were already beginning to fade. The father, after learning what parental duties entailed, started avoiding the newborn and his wife. For this, the mother was beginning to resent her husband and in turn, the baby. Despite Aziraphale’s best efforts, this was not something that a minor (or major) miraculous intervention could solve. What they needed was something that Heaven could not provide.

The solution rested in an innovation from Hell. As the world got more populated, there was a need for new demons. There had been no new fallen angels since the first war, so Hell--in a rare moment of creativity--generated demon spawn. They were, for the most part, human, except for their ability to cause chaos. Halloween was the yearly distribution day of the demon children, and as luck (or ineffability) would have it, Crowley was selected to hand-deliver one particular baby.

The plan was simple. As soon as the sun’s rays faded from the horizon, Crowley would sneak into the Dowling Estate, demonic baby in tow. He would swap out the babies, and then Aziraphale would deposit them into the arms of loving parents. Perhaps in another lifetime, Aziraphale mused, they could have become a gardener and a nanny to oversee the upbringing of the child. Alas, that was a different story.

Halloween night came. Aziraphale waited for Crowley in the garden, who carried the demonic baby in his arms. The baby looked normal, neither horns nor hooves, just ten toesie-wosies and a brown fluff of hair. It was hard to believe that they would grow up to be anything but normal. At the risk of being called soft, Aziraphale bestowed a blessing upon the baby in an effort to counteract any demonic instincts. Maybe he will grow up to be a happy, normal child, and, then, a normal, fairly contented adult. He will probably win prizes for his tropical fish.

A few hours after dark, Crowley slithered into the garden. He transformed, black scales melting into fabric and tail splitting into legs. Grinning with too many pointed teeth and too much false confidence, he said, “I’ll be in and out, no more than an hour. Meet you back at the bookshop, yeah?”

“Alright.” Aziraphale handed off the baby. As Crowley turned to leave, there was a sudden sharpness to the chill in the air. Something was wrong. Or something was going to go wrong. “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale longed to touch him--to reach out and pat his arm, or squeeze his hand, or caress his cheek. Instead, empty fingers twitched into a fist, restrained by his side. “Be careful, my dear.”

The devil-may-care smile on his lips faltered at the edges, but it was back before Aziraphale had the chance to comment.

“Careful is my middle name, angel.” Crowley winked a serpent’s eye and vanished.

**The bookshop, 16 October 2019**

It is October, again. The nights are growing longer, and the days are growing colder. Each morning begins with rain or fog. Sometimes both. With the warmth of summer gone and the chill of festivities yet to arrive, October is a particularly dreary month.

It’s been almost 22 years, and Azirpahle still misses him. He wishes he had asked Crowley how to sleep so that he could nap through all 31 days. But Crowley isn’t here, so he can’t ask him. Instead, he drinks. He prefers wine, but drinks whiskey (Crowley’s favorite). It’s not about the taste. It’s about the burn because the burn makes everything more bearable. Somewhere after the fourth (or was it the fifth?) shot, Aziraphale looks at the tree in front of his shop. Most of its neighbors shed in the month prior, but this particular tree hasn’t yet. It’s impossible to say whether the leaves are clinging to the tree or if the tree is clinging to the leaves. The tree reminds Aziraphale of himself. Is he attached to the memories of Crowley, or are the memories of Crowley attached to him?

The ringing of the bell over the front door rudely interrupts his thoughts.

“I’m closed,” Arizaphale snaps as sharply as he can with his drunken tongue. “You’ll go away, if you know what’s good for you.”

“It’s just me, Mr. Fell.” A thin man with a meek voice and messy black hair comes into the backroom.

Aziraphale slumps back into his armchair. “Newt.”

“Anathema sent me to check in on you.” He sets a plastic takeout bag on the coffee table and begins to unload styrofoam boxes. “I brought you sushi from the place up the street.”

Aziraphale opens the containers one by one and considers the sashimi. It looks fresh, pink, and beautifully sliced. At one point he may have felt hungry, but he doesn’t feel much of anything. Not since  _ that  _ night. He doesn’t want to be rude, so he splits the chopsticks and dips the first slice in the soy sauce. The first bite is dull (then again, everything is dull without Crowley). It is edible, though, and he keeps chewing because he knows it will make Newt and Anathema happy.

“We’re going to America to visit some family. We’ll be gone for a few weeks, but we’ll be back by the 30th. Anathema said that she can try summoning him again.”

The sashimi slice slips from the grip of his chopsticks. It lands back in the takeout box with a wet plop. His hand trembles, and he has to take a breath to prevent his voice from doing the same. “It won’t work.”

“You don’t know that.”

“When I reach out, there’s nothing. I… I can’t feel him anymore.” He shuts his eyes against the sorrow. “He’s gone.”

It’s quiet for a moment.

“Gone, gone?” Newt asks. “I thought you said that was impossible. Unless there was holy--”

“I’m grateful for the sushi, but you need to go.”

“Aziraphale--”

“Now, Newt.”

Aziraphale manages to hold it together until the door closes before he starts crying.

It is October, again. The ache is supposed to be less now, but it isn’t. Emptiness is the heaviest burden. Wails and whimpers alternate until he is tired to do anything but breathe. He wishes he could sleep, but he can’t because he never learned how. Instead, he pours himself another shot of whiskey.

It’s been 22 years, and Aziraphale can’t stop missing him.


End file.
